Balcony Stories eBook

“I have often thought, since, in large assemblies,
particularly in weddings, Josephine, of what was going
on in the women’s hearts there, and I have felt
sorry for them; and when I think of God’s knowing
what is in their hearts, I have felt sorry for the
men. And I often think now, Josephine,—­think
oftener and oftener of it,—­that if the
resurrection trumpet of our childhood should sound
some day, no matter when, out there, over the old
St. Louis cemetery, and we should all have to rise
from our long rest of oblivion, what would be the first
thing we should do? And though there were a God
and a heaven awaiting us,—­by that same
God, Josephine, I believe that our first thought in
awakening would be the last in dying,—­confession,—­and
that our first rush would be to the feet of one another
for forgiveness. For there are some offenses
that must outlast the longest oblivion, and a forgiveness
that will be more necessary than God’s own.
Then our hearts will be bared to one another; for
if, as you say, there are no secrets at our age, there
can still be less cause for them after death.”

His voice ended in the faintest whisper. The
table crashed over, and the cards flew wide-spread
on the floor. Before we could recover, madame
was in the antechamber, screaming for Jules.

One would have said that, from her face, the old lady
had witnessed the resurrection described by Mr. Horace,
the rush of the spirits with their burdens of remorse,
the one to the feet of the other; and she must have
seen herself and her husband, with a unanimity of purpose
never apparent in their short married life, rising
from their common tomb and hastening to that other
tomb at the end of the alley, and falling at the feet
of the one to whom in life he had been recreant in
love, she in friendship.

Of course Jules answered through the wrong door, rushing
in with his gas-stick, and turning off the gas.
In a moment we were involved in darkness and dispute.

“But what does he mean? What does the idiot
mean? He—­” It was impossible
for her to find a word to do justice to him and to
her exasperation at the same time.

“Pardon, madame; it is not I. It is the cathedral
bell; it is ringing nine o’clock.”

“But—­”

“Madame can hear it herself. Listen!”
We could not see it, but we were conscious of the
benign, toothless smile spreading over his face as
the bell-tones fell in the room.

“But it is not the gas. I—­”

“Pardon, madame; but it is the gas. Madame
said, ’Jules, put out the gas every night when
the bell rings.’ Madame told me that only
last night. The bell rings: I put out the
gas.”

“Will you be silent? Will you listen?”

“If madame wishes; just as madame says.”

But the old lady had turned to Mr. Horace. “Horace,
you have seen—­you know—­”
and it was a question now of overcoming emotion.
“I—­I—­I—­a carriage,
my friend, a carriage.”